Taji's Syndrome

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “It’s on the west of town, out toward the airport. I called ahead. They’re expecting us.” He frowned as he got into the car. “What worries me is that I haven’t seen signs of it myself. I’ve been working with it, and so many of the medical staff have got it, I wake up at night, afraid that I’ve got it, too.”

  Jeff started out of the parking lot. “I know the feeling,” he said directly.

  “I’ve had patients with AIDS and it didn’t frighten me. I knew what was required to get it. But what scares me is that whatever gave Irene TS is still around, and we don’t know what it is. I have times when I’m afraid to breathe or eat or bathe because I might be getting something that will kill me.” He gave a shaky little laugh. “Left at the next light.”

  “Thanks.” He remembered what Donna Howell had told him about Dale Reed: the man was in love with his patient and it was increasingly difficult for him. “How is she—Missus Channing—doing? Is there more improvement?”

  “She’s stronger and she’s doing some sketching—she’s an artist, you know—and her muscle tone is improving. It’s the other. That’s what troubles me.”

  “What about it?” This was what Jeff wanted to know the most about, the thing that caused him almost as much alarm as the rising fatalities from TS.

  “She’s . . . getting stronger that way, too. It wears her out. If she moves something, she goes to bed for the rest of the day, and just naps. She says it exhausts her and makes her unable to concentrate or to think. They’ve . . . the docs there have been asking her to work on it.” He frowned. “It worries me, Taji.”

  “I can understand why,” he said, becoming concerned himself. He had thought that this would be a fairly direct phase of the investigation, but now he realized that it would not. He put his mind on his driving and let Dale Reed talk as they made their way to the private hospital where Irene Channing now lived.

  There were three separate security stations to pass before they were admitted to her room.

  Dr. Galen Simeon was already with Irene, his lugubrious face looking more like a basset hound’s than usual. “It is distressing, Missus Channing,” he was saying as Dale and Jeff came through the door.

  “Irene,” Dale said, going to her and kissing her, outwardly unconcerned about being observed.

  She returned the kiss. “I’m so glad to see you, Dale,” she said. “How’s Steve? How’s Brice? Are they doing all right?”

  “I saw them yesterday. They’re fine. I’m scheduling them for blood work and a full PAST scan next week. I’ll let you know what the results are.” He had her hands in his.

  “No matter what?” she insisted.

  “No matter what,” he promised.

  “And Edith? I need to speak with her. They’re not going to allow her to visit, but I have to—”

  Dale interrupted her. “I’ll call her. And I’ll explain to the staff here that Ms. Kentish is your attorney, so that you won’t have to go through this anymore.” He slipped his arm around her shoulder and drew her as close as he could, sitting on the edge of the bed. The draperies were drawn and so the room had a muted light in it, as if it were under water and these two were lost sculpture of another time lying on the floor of the sea.

  “Doctor Reed.” Simeon was short of patience, but his urgency stemmed from something more than that. “I haven’t finished here. I have others to look after; Missus Channing is not my only responsibility.”

  Jeff stepped into the breach. “I’m Jeff Taji from the National Center for Dis—”

  “Oh, yes,” Simeon cut him short as he came forward, hand extended, a look in his eyes that probed Jeff even as he went through the proper form of good manners. “A pleasure. I’m curious to hear about your latest work on this difficult disease.”

  “Certainly. I’ll be grateful to hear your views as well. I’ll do what I can to fill you in on my own end of the work,” said Jeff, drawing Galen Simeon to the farthest point in the room. “I want to have a look at the tape you have on Missus Channing. I realize you haven’t yet determined what the cause of this is, but we have found a few more survivors of the disease and we’re extremely curious about the aftereffects of TS.” He hesitated. “We’re trying to keep these developments as quiet as possible. It’s bad enough to have so deadly a disease, but the possibility of becoming a freak if one survives it . . .”

  “You’re certain that happens in all cases?” Simeon asked.

  “No. That’s part of the trouble. We find survivors very slowly, and when we do, testing them is awkward, to say the least. We don’t want to give rise to more . . . problems than we’ve got.”

  “Not surprising,” said Simeon. “I think it would be of great interest to more than you,” he added pointedly. “How fast is TS spreading; do you know?”

  “Faster than is being admitted publicly, though after John Post’s regular reports, I doubt the public is fooled very much. They know about his son, and they trust him. Our figures indicate that we have over a hundred thousand cases in the U.S. with another fifteen thousand in Canada. By that, we mean cases that have been diagnosed. Who knows how many people out there could come down with it in the next year or so?”

  “And the fatality curve remains about the same?” Simeon asked.

  “About the same. We will need more time to find out how constant it is, of course.” Jeff sighed. “So far, we haven’t been able to isolate the trigger.”

  “That’s not good,” Simeon said, his haggard Russian features growing more careworn. “You have another problem, in case you were not aware of it.”

  “Which problem? I could name dozens.” Jeff thought that he was referring to the emotional involvement of Dale and Irene, and was not alert to the warning, so that what Simeon said next was shocking.

  “There are ESA men nosing around here. They’re trying to get their hands on Irene Channing. Luckily she is a well-known and wealthy woman, and she can insist on privacy, and get some protection from us. At least she can so far. There may be other survivors who are not as fortunate.”

  “How do you mean?” Jeff demanded, keeping his voice low so that he would not disturb the two on the bed.

  “I mean,” he said with great precision, “that apparently the ESA has come to believe that the survivors are strategically important to the country. They are a tightlipped lot, but I gather that Missus Channing isn’t the only one to have developed psychokinetic abilities, and they are determined to . . . to have control over their skills, and to direct their use.” He waited, letting this sink in.

  “No one in Atlanta has said . . .” Jeff’s phrase trailed off. “But they wouldn’t, would they? We might blow their cover, we might tell the world. Hell, we would tell the world.”

  “A consideration,” said Simeon. “And they have also concealed the statistics of TS in the armed forces for similar reasons. They want to cull out the secret weapons, and those who do not survive—at least so far—are considered to be acceptable losses.”

  Jeff did not want to believe what he was hearing. He tried to muster arguments to deny it, but none of them were wholly convincing. He took a deep breath. “I’m going to have to find out more about this.”

  “You will in any case, I think.” He rubbed at his long jaw as if he wore a goatee. “I don’t want to be a harbinger of doom, but it strikes me, Doctor Taji, that every one of you working on this investigation had better be as careful as you possibly can, not only for your health, but your safety as well. The Executive Security Agency isn’t going to be thwarted by a few determined doctors if they really want the TS survivors. I’m telling you this because I know what we’ve had going on here. I haven’t said anything to Dale,” he went on as he saw the skeptical look in Jeff’s eyes. “Dale might do something foolish because of his involvement with Irene Channing, and that would not help anyone.”

  Jeff nodded slowl
y. “All right; what’s happened?”

  Simeon lowered his voice. “In the last two weeks there have been nine new lab techs here, all of them from outside of the Dallas-Fort Worth area. Everyone else in the lab defers to them and they are permitted to work with minimal supervision. Two days ago I caught one of them rifting the PAST scan files. When I reported it, I was told that I had made a mistake. Up until then I was afraid I was being paranoid; now I think I was being naive.”

  “It could have been something else,” Jeff said without any conviction.

  “Certainly. That’s what I’ve been told. But those lab techs aren’t here to find out what’s new in geriatric medicine or new ways to dry out rich drunks, so I have to assume that Missus Channing is the reason for all this. The military wants to find out how to make psychokines. You ought to see the lab techs. You’d know what I mean.” Simeon lowered his eyes. “I quit smoking eight years ago, but right now I would love a cigarette.”

  Jeff nodded sympathetically, though he had never smoked. “I know the feeling,” he said, recognizing the anxiety the admission concealed.

  “There’s one who seems to be in charge of the others, a man in his mid-thirties named Kiley. You would have to see his eyes to understand, but he is a machine.” Simeon looked toward Irene and Dale, giving Jeff a warning gesture with his hand. “I would like to borrow Missus Channing for a few minutes, Reed.”

  Dale had risen and was standing by the bed. “All right. I’ll come with you.”

  “As you wish.” Simeon took a terry cloth robe from the closet. “You can walk on your own, Missus Channing,” he said as he gave the robe to Dale, who held it for her.

  “You know, there’s really no reason to keep me in jammies all the time,” Irene said. “I’d feel a hell of a lot better in slacks and shirt. I don’t like thinking of myself as sick anymore. I think it’s slowing down my progress.”

  The three men walked with her down the hall. “I’ll see what can be arranged,” said Dale. “I should have thought of it before now.”

  She slipped her hand into his. “You’re a love, do you know that?”

  “We aim to please,” Dale told her, ignoring the two other men.

  They arrived at a small therapy room equipped with whirlpool baths and a wall of double doors leading to small saunas. Beyond that stood four massage tables and some mild exercise machines.

  “I would like it if you’d try the rowing machine. Nothing too strenuous, but enough to get your muscles into gear. If you start to feel dizzy or sore, stop at once,” said Simeon, looking not at Irene but at Dale, daring him to object.

  “I’ll send for Naoko,” said Dale, and started toward the door.

  “Naoko has been replaced,” Simeon said with no emotion at all.

  “But—” Dale came back toward them. “She’s the best masseuse we have. Why replace her?”

  “It wasn’t my decision,” Simeon said coolly. “I wasn’t consulted. There’s a Francis Bethune in her place. If I were you, I’d ask for Narmada Parvi—she’s very good.” He did not add that she had been with the hospital for more than ten years and was therefore relatively safe.

  “All right. Is she here?” Dale said, perplexed.

  “What’s going on?” Irene interrupted. “Why is Naoko gone and why don’t you want me to have the new man? It has to do with that fellow Kiley, doesn’t it? Ever since he came here, I feel like I’m being watched all the time. He gives me the creeps.”

  “Narmada’s worked on you before,” said Simeon evenly, his tone even faintly bored, but his eyes warned her to be cautious and not argue.

  “She’s fine,” said Irene, picking up on Simeon’s unspoken signals. “I’m not up to having more strangers around me. I’ve had nothing but strangers since I got this damned TS. Aside from Dale, I haven’t seen a truly familiar face in months.”

  “Narmada it is,” said Dale, who had watched the silent exchange with growing apprehension. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

  “Now then, Missus Channing, the rowing machine. Use that one, please, and no more than a dozen repeats. We’ll see how you’re doing when you’re through.” As she pulled out of her robe and took her place on the machine, Simeon pulled Jeff aside and said very softly, “The room is bugged. Possibly photographed as well.”

  Jeff raised his voice enough to provide something for the listeners, “I can understand your concern. But if her temperature remains normal, I don’t think you should hold her back. Lack of exercise might be more of a problem than you think.”

  “Her blood work isn’t normal yet,” Simeon said with a quick, relieved smile. “I don’t want to take any chances.”

  From her place on the rowing machine, Irene hesitated in her workout to ask, “How is Doctor Picknor? When I heard he was in the hospital, I was . . . I felt so guilty.”

  Simeon strolled over to her. “He’s holding his own. He’s signed a Public Benefit contract and they’re starting with some new therapy tomorrow. He’s more useful than many of the others, since he’s a physician.”

  “Being a physician didn’t stop him from coming down with TS, and being one isn’t going to cure him. The statistics on nurses are horrifying,” Jeff said. “Twenty percent of the victims of TS have signed Public Benefit contracts and we still aren’t getting anywhere. All we have is more sick people we can try things out on. It’s all well and good to have the Public Benefit contract, but God! it would be better to have something to offer the people who sign them.” He looked away, and when he gave his attention to Simeon again, he was less caustic. “I was out of line to talk: like that.”

  “You’re under the gun,” said Simeon, slightly startled that he would receive an apology.

  “Aren’t we all. It’s no excuse for . . .” He shrugged and dropped his voice. “About the PK?”

  From the rowing machine, Irene groaned. As both men turned to her, startled, she said. “Sorry. Sore muscles.”

  Simeon took a moment to collect his thoughts again. “It exhausts her, but she is gaining more control all the time.” His eyes were apprehensive. “I don’t know how long we can keep the ESA out of this.”

  “We’ll find a way,” said Jeff, not at all sure how. “I want daily reports on her progress, with blood work and test results as they’re processed. I need to know what’s going on here. I haven’t enough data to begin to know where to start on the cases like hers.”

  “You’re worried about her, aren’t you?”

  “I’m worried about all of them. The survivors . . . I don’t know what to say about them. What’s the old expression? out of the frying pan into the fire? Most of them are worn out from illness, and to have this . . . this ability turn up, well, the few we’ve identified are scared. Who can blame them?”

  “Frying pan into the fire,” confirmed Simeon. “I haven’t seen much on the other survivors.”

  “There aren’t very many of them,” Jeff said reluctantly. “This disease has about an eighty-six percent fatality rate, at least that’s the current figures. Survivors are only now showing up, and with TS spreading the way it is, we haven’t the time or the staff to go looking for them. We hope that someone notices them and lets us know about them.”

  “Is that all you’ve been able to come up with? I know that the teenagers seem to come down with it faster than adults, but to have so high a fatality rate . . . Hell, once you’re thirteen, it sounds pretty hopeless.”

  “There are a few people who are apparently past puberty and still immune. We’re trying to find out why. We can’t work out a similarity, except that none of the survivors have O-type blood and all those who are apparently immune do.” He shook his head slowly. “But find the sense in that, will you? If all it takes is O-type blood to be immune, most of the population would be safe.”

  “Rh factors?” Simeon suggested.

>   “Nothing so far. We’re going for genotypes next. The genotypes may be a long shot, but—” He looked over at Irene. “Missus Channing, how do you feel?”

  She stopped rowing. “Like I’ve dug up an entire back yard,” she said, pressing her forearm against her face. “I can’t believe how weak I am.”

  “You’re doing very well,” Simeon said as the door opened and Dale returned with a small Hindu woman. “We’re almost ready for you, Narmada.”

  “Good,” said Narmada with a smile. “It is wonderful to see Missus Channing so much improved.”

  Jeff heard the lilt in her speech and asked, “Where are you from, Narmada?”

  She beamed at him. “We came from New Delhi, many, many years ago. I was only eight.” She was too polite to ask where he came from, so he volunteered.

  “My family left Iran when I was young, too. We aren’t Moslems, let alone Shi’ites.” He indicated Irene. “Have you worked with her before?”

  “Oh, yes. Very fortunate lady is Missus Channing. She has lived.” Narmada went and stood beside her. “Come. If you are ready.”

  Dale was helping Irene up from the rowing machine. “I have a feeling you’ll be back at work full-time in another month, Irene.” He wrapped his arms around her.

  Irene returned his embrace, but when they broke apart, she said to Jeff, “What has always amazed me about Dale is that all through this, he has never once acted as if he was afraid of TS. He never behaved as if he could catch it from me, or as if there was any danger. When I think of the way everyone else behaved, it . . . humbles me.”

  “Irene, don’t,” Dale protested fondly.

  “It is remarkable,” said Simeon to them both.

  “What’s to fear from an environmental disease?” Dale asked a little too blithely. “The air will give it to me quicker than she will.”

  Narmada came and took Irene’s arm. “Excuse me, but it is time for the massage. You should not stand idly after exercise; it will make your muscles stiff.” So saying, she led Irene over to the massage tables.